Roadmap to Self Discovery
by SlimyBunny
Summary: Maybe she was Serena, because the road to enlightenment seemed to be paved with men. Blair-centric. Spoiler-less
1. Nate

**QUICK A/N! **I got really busy towards the end of writing this so I haven't been able to edit it. I swear I'll come back and fix them—really! For now, if you come across a mistake, just close your eyes and pretend its not there.

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**Roadmap to Self Discovery**

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_**.**__"__All men should strive  
to learn before they die  
what they are running from, and to, and why.__"__  
~James Thurber_

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**Y****ou hurt so bad, but it's ok; he's aloe vera.**

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You love him as one loves a foreign object that they've seen all their life. You love him like you love the Eiffel tower, or the Sistine Chapel; something familiar yet distant. You love him like you love Eleanor—something that's always been there, that you know absolutely but you don't truly understand.

You love him, but that doesn't stop the irony from striking almost every day and leaving you slightly irritated as you always are when your plans don't work out.

It was supposed to be a love story for the ages—you had it all planned out, you guys would be high-school sweethearts and go to the same college and always be together, right from the very start—it was supposed to be a story of success. You'd always classified the hardships (such as your boyfriend and your best friend's drunken night together) as mere trials that would bring you to the inescapable happy ending of the perfect fairytale. Never once had you considered what would happen if the shoe didn't fit, or you switched princes or even roles midway through.

But it's okay, because this time it's like before, only a million times better.

There are no more expectations, no disappointments, no sadness, and no bright, bright future looming overhead. There's no heat, no passion, no spark, and he only touches you with affection in public places, but that's okay; you've had enough heat to last you a long time, and you're still recovering from the burns.

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**Things are just like you've always wanted them to be.**

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He says he loves you two weeks in. You're walking down Central Park hand in hand and it looks like a scene out of the movie that you've always wanted your life to be, and nothing like the daytime soap opera that your life has turned into.

"Love you, Blair. Always have, always will."

His periwinkle blue eyes crinkle around the corners as he smiles down at you, and you remember the last time he said those words and how they sounded infinitely better twisted around and murmured in your ear as pure heat swirled you around the dance floor.

You smile back and tell him you love too. Then you buy a cup of hot chocolate and wrap your hands around the warm Styrofoam instead.

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**Her heart breaks too but you're not supposed to care. **

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You guys run into Vanessa three weeks later. It surprises you since even though you guys don't run in the same social circles you thought she would have come looking for him judging by the messages she left on his cell phone those first weeks that you found and couldn't be bothered to delete.

You're at Lilly's art show when she taps Nate on his shoulder.

"Hi," she says, looking up at him beneath those thick eyelashes coated in Maybelline. Just for a moment, you're a bit irked.

She looks at him square in the face then, all suddenly with a quick unattractive head jerk (but its Vanessa, and judging by her clothes, attractiveness was never a top priority for her), and stares at your boyfriend.

You should be more upset than you actually are since it looks like Nate's having a 'moment' with someone else, but maybe you're just too drained from having to fight boys off rooftops and wipe coke off their noses because you just can't bring yourself to break up the moment that's transpiring right before your eyes.

Finally, Nate lowers his gaze.

"Well, see you guys around," she murmurs, and then wanders off.

You think that you might have seen her wiping her eyes as she walked off and the thought occurs to you that maybe you should walk after her and comfort her, but it such a foreign concept and you've been there before and it was no big deal, you survived it, and even if you walked after her you aren't quite sure of what to say, so you don't follow. Besides, you think, you aren't sure of what you saw and you aren't going to expose yourself to all the diseases that Brooklyn possesses for something that wasn't a complete certainty.

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**You might have outgrown fairytales, but you did always cast Nate as Prince Charming for a reason.**

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You're there for each other during important things.

In fact, you were sitting right there, on his sunny yellow bed covers watching him as he paced around the room, trying to decide if he should let Grandfather pay his way into Princeton. You're there to remind him about 'legacy' and to list off the most important and influential Vanderbilt's, which you've had committed to memory since you were ten, and to nod when he rants on and on about being his own person, not being shackled to his family name, and importance of dignity. And when he's done muttering to himself, you're there to quietly ask him, what happens now?

You're there to hold his hand as he calls Grandfather and quietly defends himself; assuring him with the gentle squeeze of your hand when he falters, that he can do it—you believe in him. And when he's done, you're there to softly tell him that you're proud of him.

Your there to see the boy you've always loved act like the man that you knew he could be.

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He's there for you too.

Harold comes during mid-April. He smiles at you a little, but he grins at Nate.

You see the look in his eyes and it's like he recognizes you a little again, that he's just a bit proud of you, and you can't help grinning a little wider and puffing out your chest a bit, because even though it's sick and twisted and just plain wrong for a father to accept you for your choice of boyfriend, you can't help but be just a little bit happier.

Nate's a perfect gentleman throughout the duration of Harold's stay.

Of course, Nate's always been a perfect gentleman, parents or no parents.

He holds the door open for you, then Harold, to slip into his shiny silver car. He laughs at Harold's jokes, plays racquet sports with Harold and only beats him by an appropriate two points, and one night he accompanies you to your father's hotel room and the two spend the whole night trading embarrassing stories of your childhood.

When your father leaves, he beams at you, and you can almost imagine that he's forgiven you.

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**No matter how much you dust it off it's just not as shiny anymore.**

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It's a Sunday, and Nate and you are watching a movie (from DreamWorks starring Hugh Jackman so Nate enjoys it too) when a unexpected thought pops into your head and suddenly your jerking up from the couch and running off to your room leaving a severely confused (which frankly, was nothing new) Nate.

Three minutes later you're racing down the stairs while your heels make a faint clinking sound until you arrive in front of your boyfriend a little out of breath and an object clasped tightly in your hands.

The sunlight shines on the object slightly and it glint escapes for a split second from your tightly fisted palm. Nate smiles and holds his hand out for you to pin your heart back onto his sweater.

"It's back where it belongs," you tell him.

He nods in agreement as you both settle onto the soft cushions. You try not to think about the last time this pin was in front of the both of you and the awkward moment when you'd shuffled your feet and asked for it back before leaping out of the door and using it for another ploy, while Nate looks down at the shiny heart from Tiffany's now reattached to his mint green jacket and tries not to think about Vanessa and her hand-braided bracelets, weaving in reds, blues, greens, and yellows because she had always knew those were his favorite colors.

You pop in another movie, a comedy, and you both smile so hard, even after the muscles in your faces begin to hurt.

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**The devil never was known for his subtleness. **

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He corners you a little less than a month after you and Nate make it official.

It's not the first time he's tried to talk to you but whenever he came too close you would always quickly move away from him, _Chuck, I need space. _His brown eyes would narrow and get a shade darker while his hands unconsciously reached out for you before he nods and turns away, creeping back into the shadows; waiting.

He's been surprisingly patient though, not pushing you any further than you've been willing to go, and you admit that you're quite impressed because you don't think that you could have resisted for quite as long.

But now you guess your time is up.

You see him at Hazel's birthday party (a dreadful chore but necessary if you wanted to keep sitting atop the stairs) and Gossip Girl reports that though this is the first real party (real party, not some opium den or some coked-out limo) that Chuck Bass attended since the death of Big Bad Bart (may he rest in peace) he didn't look like he was in the partying mood.

'_I wonder what this Bass is really fishing for' _Gossip Girl types, and you can almost hear her banal tones braying her overused pun.

It doesn't take you long to figure it out. You have the answer when Chuck Bass demonstrates his superior sleuthing skills and follows you to the bathroom in the guest bedroom. As you exit the restroom you find him perched against the doorframe, blocking your way out of the room; his dark eyes digging deep into you. You can almost hear what Gossip Girl would say if she saw, _'guess that it really is going to be the Bass doing all the fishing. Hook, line, and sinker B. You know you love me, xoxo…' _But since you're not some B-list wannabe who's only chance of getting close to the elite was to live vicariously through their lives (just for a moment you wonder if Gossip Girl was Jenny Humphrey), you say, "what do you want Bass?"

He doesn't say anything, but he doesn't let go of your eyes either, and suddenly the whole atmosphere changes, becomes thicker, and you find yourself having respiratory problems. Your heart begins to speed up until its racing faster than the time you fought Serena on the lacrosse field and you suck in your breaths like a marathon runner while electricity is running up and down your spine making you dizzy and unable to think of anything but him.

You used to live for moments like this, but now you look away.

You know you've lost, which stings, but it's just not so important anymore, because you can't play his game anymore. You feel like you're a step behind everybody all the time, scurrying behind flowing blonde hair or running to catch up with brooding dark figures, and now you're just tired.

You're Blair Waldorf, he says, you're supposed to go down fighting.

He's grasping for straws now, his dark eyes boring into you, demanding that you choose.

You're Blair Waldorf, he repeats, desperate now. You're Blair Waldorf, funny, sassy, smart, amazing brunette with a heart of gold that's cloaked with darkness. He knows you better than you know yourself. You're Blair Waldorf, and Blair Waldorf belongs with him.

Then he lunges for you, his hands on either side of your face crushing your skull as if he was afraid that you'd run away. His lips attack yours and you don't just feel it everywhere on your body, you feel it in your soul. In less than two minutes, you guys fall back onto some strangers bed, and his hands are grabbing at other places than your face—a dance that you are so familiar with (but only with him—you're partner in more than one way.)

You jerk upright.

He's right. You're Blair Waldorf, and Blair Waldorf belongs with him. But it's too fast, and you can't keep up anymore, not even with yourself.

He knows you well.

He can taste the defeat on your lips, and pulls away with a sigh.

"What can I do to fix this?" he whispers to the quiet room.

But you shake your head and tell him 'nothing'. Not because you want him to chase you or to draw out the excruciating pleasure of the game you both love so much, but because he truly can't do anything.

'_This'_ doesn't need fixing, you realize; _you_ do.

So you stand up, straighten the wrinkles out of your dress, and you tell Chuck Bass goodbye.

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You find Nate slumped over on a couch, a full glass of champagne in his hands, and despite the fact that your heart is impersonating a hummingbird at the moment, you have to smirk. Nate's never liked champagne. He says the bubbles burn going down his throat.

Chuck's never liked champagne either. He doesn't possess the patience necessary for it. 'You drink to get drunk, Waldorf,' he had slurred at you when you carried him home for Nate one night, encompassing you in a cloud of scotch as he leaned in far too close, 'and champagne doesn't get you drunk.'

"You ready to go?" Nate asks.

You nod you're head, then reach for his glass and down it in one gulp, then you take his hand and you two stroll slowly out of the party, side by side. You try to ignore the burning in your throat the whole way out.

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**The green eyed monster comes out to play, but then again, for you it's probably never really gone away.**

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You're sitting next to Serena when you see the blast about Chuck and Vanessa.

Just moments ago you two were having your frappacino's (your whipped cream scooped off your cup and dumped unceremoniously on the tall Amazonian blonde's) and giggling about Dan's latest mishap (he and Serena were trying the friends thing yet again and you can't help but wonder while you nod and smile and lend your supporting hand, just how long it'll last this time before she comes to you with stars in her eyes and pledging everlasting love and how it'll be different this time—she swears, she can feel it) when your phones vibrate against your thighs and you're welcomed with the picture of a sheepish looking Vanessa fleeing from the Plaza with her horrible Bohemian-that-was-mauled-by-a-wild-grizzly hair in even further disarray.

Serena swears low under her breath then looks up at you, her big blue eyes anxious, waiting for a Waldorf fit or at least a promise of social destruction.

You can feel your heart clench and you are momentarily tempted to give in and give your best friend what she's waiting for but you swallow the acidic bile that's gathering in your throat and pray to the gods that it'll burn away all the remaining butterflies.

Then you smile, sip at your coffee and prompt Serena to continue with her story.

She looks at you, bewildered.

"B…"

"I'm fine," you cut her off, because you are fine, really you are, but even 'fine' can not deal with the cardiac arrest that you are undergoing right now. "So then what did Dan do?"

With weary eyes she gives you a glance before launching back into her story and you laugh and gasp and tut at all the right parts and the suspicion in Serena's eyes slowly melts away.

But five minutes later you start to feel a bit sick again, like you had too much Brooklyn for the day.

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When you finally reach home you begin to cry off your water-proof mascara, but only for a moment before reality and a strong sense of déjà vu kick in. You've been here before, for almost the same reasons, more than once, and you don't really want to be here anymore.

Besides, you rationalize, you've got no reason to be upset. You told him that you couldn't be with him, you told him that you couldn't play his game anymore, you told him to stop fighting.

But despite of this reasoning your heart still breaks a little, because in spite of your sincere words you had hoped the teeniest bit that maybe, just maybe, he'd stick by you through your darkest thoughts, instead of giving up and forgetting you for whore after whore (yes, you admit, you know about Elle, the blonde bitch—and you thought brunettes where supposed to be his thing). He's supposed to fight for you, just like you fought for him. Then in a sudden moment of self-love that is proclaimed to be the Holy Grail for someone like you by your half-wit therapist, it hits you.

You deserve someone that will never stop fighting for you.

With a sigh, you pick yourself up, reapply your makeup and move on.

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**.**

**Oh, how much things have changed.**

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Nate decides to throw you a birthday party since he missed you last one, he explains sheepishly.

But just, he adds hastily because he knew that the old Blair always loved the public, for the two of you, since he's no good at planning parties.

You nod, happily agreeing with the idea because you just can't seem to muster up the energy to put on your party clothes and your hostess smile anymore. You do have the energy, however, to pick up the phone and dial Serena's number to make sure that this wouldn't be some misguided attempt of a surprise party. She assures you that it's not, and that he's going to get you a necklace from Cartier's. Your jaw clenches slightly, and your grip tightens on the phone, before asking Serena to suggest a bracelet instead, because you needed one desperately.

On the day of your pseudo-birthday Nate comes over, smiling happily, bringing with him a small cake and a (to your relief) a medium sized velvet box. He kisses you on the cheek, presents you with your token (the tasteful diamond bracelet you had blatantly ogled the last time you went shopping with Serena) and you two snuggle down into the couch. You watch Breakfast at Tiffany's while he reads the Sports Illustrated he brought with him.

It's perfect, despite Nate's slight snickering as Holly Golightly screamed 'cat' over and over again in the rain. Or maybe it's not perfect, but it doesn't matter because you've stopped searching for perfect a long time ago and this is good enough.

When it's over you settle back into his arms and he sets away his magazine. You begin to talk about romance, about what you guys were like when young, but with college and the future looming so close he can't help but change the subject to something future-related. You talk about what you guys had wanted to be when you grew up, how you had thought your lives would turn out, and you can't help but mist up a little bit, and tell him that you'd always assumed you would have Yale. He pats your head, and holds you closer.

Suddenly he blurts out, "Do you remember that time you told me what you wanted to be when you grew up?"

And you stare at him, slightly peeved, because that was just like Nate, not offering any specifics and conveniently forgetting that he'd asked her that question several times each year during the six years that they had officially dated.

He smiles guiltily and rubs the back of his head as he continues, "You were about nine, and we were at my house. You had come over because you'd just watched Breakfast at Tiffany's the other day, and you were so excited because you wanted to share what you felt was 'the most superb cinematic piece of art that you had ever had the pleasure of viewing.' I remember those were your exact words because I had to look up half of them in the dictionary after you'd hung up."

Nate chuckles.

"And midway through the film you were gazing starry eyed at the screen when you noticed that I was dozing off in the background and you'd slapped me awake and told me to watch and be riveted. But I just couldn't remain conscious, so to distract you, and to keep me from falling asleep again, I started to ask you questions, like your favorite color and your favorite season. Then I asked you what you wanted to be when you grew up, and you rolled your eyes at me and told me, 'duh Nate, I want to be your wife,' before tuning back to the screen.'

Nate smiles at you and you smile back.

You spend the rest of the night talking about how thing used to be when you had planned to be Mrs. Archibald, a successful lawyer who graduated _summa cum laude_ from Yale, and mother of three charming children.

You tell him that you can still see them; your perfect children. Your eldest would be a boy with dark brown hair and he'd be the class clown, a joker and a slacker (only on the surface though—a child of Blair Waldorf would always have a perfect GPA, no matter what), but he'd have a heart of gold and he'd protect his sisters no matter what.

"But Blair," Nate asks, "I thought you only wanted a little girl."

Oh. Yeah.

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**It's the end and it's all wrong but you can't help but feeling that maybe you're doing it right for the first time. **

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It doesn't go quite as far as planned this time; but almost.

You make it all the way until the end of senior year, graduating as Prom King and Queen, and well into the summer.

This time it doesn't end with tears and screaming, or quiet trembling rage; instead it ends with silent smiles and a promise to stay together forever, just in a different way than what you had planned at twelve. Then bagels and some coffee follows to wash away the slight taste of remorse that lingers in your mouth, which, this time, surprisingly, you don't feel the need to regurgitate.

He drives you all the way to NYU because even though he's not your boyfriend anymore the role of Prince Charming has been engrained into him well before you guys started dating. He walks you to your dorm and then reaches for the heart pin that's still on his coat, but you stop him, clasping your hand over his.

"It's always kind of been yours anyway."

He smiles down at you, his blue eyes crinkling in the corners, and just for a moment you think that everything's going to be okay.

It's not the true love that you've always dreamed of, but you can't help but think that it feels a lot better this way.

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**A/N **So after watching the amazing promo in which Blair Goes Bad, I got so excited that the idea for this fic just popped into my head. This is going to be the first of my multi-chapter fanfictions, but it'll be more of a ficlet than a real story. Of course, the show doesn't follow this at all, so this is AU. Truthfully, I actually found the last episode of the show to be totally uninspiring and Chuck and Vanessa gave me some problems digesting my food.

Anyways, I hope you've enjoyed!


	2. Carter

**A/N So, this is Carter. I love the dynamic between them, and though they'll never replace Chuck and Blair in my heart, I think Carter is definitely an experience every girl should have. I hope you guys like it!**

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_No single event can awaken within us a stranger totally unknown to us. _

_To live is to be slowly born. _

_~Antoine de Saint-Exupéry_

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**It's a long way down, but falling's never been this fun before, so take your time.**

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You take a year off to see the world.

It's not a Blair thing to do but you're going to NYU, you've went on a date with a guy named Bob, and you've worn jeans on more than one occasion so things aren't really what they used to be; neither are you.

You go to Italy and start your way there at the end of freshman year, and for the first time in your life you feel like you're really living.

You eat gelato all the time; it's syrupy sweet to the point of being almost sickening, (but for a pampered princess such as yourself, you're surprisingly not indulgent, so you figure since college is a time for experimentation, you might as well try on gluttony as well) as it trickles down your fingers, and, for the first time in your life, you forget about carbs and calories and eating schedules, and you lap it up eagerly.

The boys are better there too. They're not great loves; you didn't expect them to be and they don't surprise you, but they're better than the ones at NYU—like Mark and John and Alex 2.0's, only now they're called Marco or Mario or some other foreign sounding name, and they insist upon calling you 'bella' no matter how many times you tell them that your name is _Blair, _and you arenot some weak-minded heroine who's ridiculous and insensible enough to fall in love with a _vampire _(but then again, you're ridiculous and insensible enough to fall in love with a Bass, which is the synonym of cold-hearted and bloodsucker in any UES-er's book).

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Harold summons you to France a month later.

Things have been a lot better with your father since that time he came to visit you (or rather to visit BlairandNate, an entity that he'd become comfortably accustomed to) and he made you promise that that you'd go see him sometime during your year off.

You oblige partly because you long to be Blair Bear again, and partly because he's the one paying for this year off anyway, since Eleanor believed that 'finding yourself' was _so_ pedestrian. _Besides_, you'll have _so_ much fun with Roman, who knew _so_ many interesting beauty tricks and was _dying_ to get his hand on your hair, okay Blair-bear?

Sometimes it amazes you how dense you're father is, but grin-and-bear-it has been your swan song since you exited the womb, so you smile and give Daddy a cheery 'yes' before accidentally terminating the call.

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France is France.

You drink wine on your father's vineyard until you get a little loopy and start calling out names in a suggestive tone to Jorge the pool boy (a mutual weakness shared by your father, Roman, and yourself). You accidentally overdose on butter for your croissants and have to swim extra laps in the pool. You lounge around all day, working on your tan, with Roman and Harold perched next to you, precariously flipping their magazines while exchanging hopeful glances over your head, wondering if maybe you liked your father's new boyfriend more this visit.

It feels like home; you've always been the nesting type so of course you love it, and besides, it's nice to have found a place unchanged since the last time you left it. But still, when you discover that you miss the adventure of Italy, you're not surprised.

It occurs to you one night, as you lay against the cool Egyptian cotton as the air conditioning blew soft puffs at you, that you like being the anonymous stranger, and you realize that you could spend a forever being unknown.

So you kiss Harold and Roman goodbye and set out to gather a life-time of Italy.

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**You were supposed to be decisive but it's a women's prerogative to change her mind.**

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You're in a four-star hotel in Turkey when you realize that you're lost.

You came to Europe to find yourself but you've been littering pieces of you everywhere you went, and that was okay—healing even—but now you think you may have accidentally given everything away (what's new?).

As you sit atop your silk sheets in your terry-cloth robe, you realize that you miss home; not just the concept of it but the actually feeling and, for a split second, you consider calling the airlines and taking a plane to France, but that hasn't been home in a long time (not since your father rode off into happily ever after with his prince, ruined your fairytale, and left you with Eleanor to pick up the pieces in one fell swoop). You realize that the Upper East Side isn't really home either, and suddenly you're cat—a poor (figuratively) nameless slob without a place to call his own (lonely isn't romantic or medicating anymore, it's just lonely).

So you decide to go to Greece next.

Serena (old, drunk, loopy Serena who had gone around screwing boyfriends and ruining lives) had once told you, when she was in the in-between state of drunk and hung-over, that she'd found something in Greece that she was sure was going to complete her. Maybe, she'd murmured to the toilet bowl, it'd already had.

You remember the way she looked a week before her departure, with her eyes shining and words bubbling out of her mouth. You lived a week of your life with your heart and mind thrumming to the beat of the _so excited, so excited, so excited_ pouring out of her glossy pink lips. It drove you insane then, but now, as you're strolling down the streets, your heart seems to have found that familiar beat once again.

You decide that you like it a lot more this time, since you're the one that's doing the leaving, not the one left behind. And you know that it's stupid, fanciful, and just plain ridiculous, but you can't help but hope that maybe you'll find something there too.

In Greece you do a lot of leaving. You leave in the middle of dinner, in the middle of dates, during shows; and two weeks into your visit, you leave Greece behind, too tired to continue searching for something that you aren't sure is even out there.

In the end, the only thing that ever seems to not disappoint you is disappointment.

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**Nothing in the world is coincidence, except for, apparently, this. **

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You meet Carter three weeks later in Rome. You're at some tourist sight and he usually frequents nightclubs.

You could call this meeting destiny and fate, or you could even call it inevitable, but you're kind of sick of those words so you call it Carter needing to earn some money by scamming tourists since he's renounced his family's fortune.

He smiles at you crookedly, and cocks his head as he leaves the old American couple's side and saunters over to you.

"Hey Waldorf," he says, grinning with a boyishness that you know he doesn't deserve to possess.

He takes you out for drinks and it's so reminiscent of the last time you met; except this time you're a little bit stronger, a little bit more stable, and a little bit less willing to tumble into bed with anyone dark and handsome.

At the end of the night his hands brush against yours as he hands you your third apple martini and his voice grows husky, but this time you decide that you need to change your story, so you smile pertly, and tell him thanks-but-no-thanks.

Surprisingly, though, you see him the next day.

"I like a challenge Waldorf," he murmurs before leaving you with your mouth slightly agape beside the Celio Hill, while a slight shiver of anticipation reverberates throughout your spine because it's been a while since someone's bothered to chase you.

The next day you put on your favorite black stockings and an extra layer of gloss. You feel slightly absurd for putting in any extra time for some boy who might not show because he's even more flighty than your blonde bombshell of a best friend, but your efforts are immediately rewarded when you discover him lounging around the plush sofas at the hotel's lobby.

It takes him three more days after that before he starts meeting you in your room instead of outside it.

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**It's not a fairytale but now you can't even remember the last time you cared.**

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This time it's not like Nate or all those other guys in college; there's no whispering, hand holding, soft kisses or moonlight. Instead it's all hot again—almost unbearably, like it always had been with Carter, all those nights ago.

He loops his arm around your waist and draws you inappropriately near him as you walk around the Piazza. He drives too fast on his motorcycle so you have to grab onto him and mold your body against his. And at night there are no soft kisses or whispered professions of love, only Carters hands, which are inexplicably everywhere, and his sloppy kisses (though what Carter lacks for in technique, he makes up for in heat).

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**He's not what you expected, but you had expected as much. **

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He takes you on your first official date three weeks after you two begin sleeping together.

This time, he meets you outside your hotel room, and his jaw drops just like you had planned for it to when you step out in a beaded white Eleanor Waldorf original cocktail dress. You can see his eyes rake up and down your legs, clad in two inch high strappy white sandals, before traveling up and taking in the almost-Serena-low neckline; you've been eye-raped in the lobby and it's absolutely inappropriate and you absolutely love it.

Then he takes you to his Vespa, and you step on his brown loafers.

"I thought you liked the Vespa?" One of his brown eyebrow rises.

"I thought this was a date?" You retort, because you're growing, you really are, but you're still Blair Waldorf, and everyone puts in extra effort when they go on a first date with Blair Waldorf.

He smiles.

"Why do you think you still have your clothes on?"

It is exactly the wrong thing to say, and you would storm away from him, but you aren't sure if he'll follow, so you settle for pouting instead, before reaching for the silver helmet.

By the end of the date, you've eaten badly cooked Mexican food, devoured different types of desert from street vendors, and Carter's bought you a cheap rose.

The date's been more Roman Holiday, and you'd dressed for Breakfast at Tiffany's, but when he takes you back to the hotel, you pull him in and kiss him hard anyway.

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**Let's get a band-aid for that bleeding heart, shall we?**

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He finds you slumped against the toilet, vomit stuck in your hair and on your hands, and he makes a tsk-ing sound before picking you up and placing your shivering body in the shower, fully clothed. Before you can protest he steps in too, Gucci loafers and all, and pulls you against his chest and begins to shampoo your hair with the same patience and attentiveness as you once saw in a chimpanzee grooming the monkey before it at the New York Zoo. It strikes you as kind of funny but you don't laugh because you'd rather not open your mouth and let that repugnant smell of the remains of the breakfast he ordered for you that morning waft through. Also, you don't think laughing is really appropriate for the situation, and even rule-breaking radicals like Carter appreciate some boundaries.

Long after he's done he holds you in that position and you slump against him listening to his heart beat.

He doesn't say anything, (there are no accusations, no gasping, no need to promise to call worthless doctors who tell you that your problems are not with your weight, but with yourself),but that's okay because he's said all that he's needed to say.

You two are quiet for a long time after that.

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**I can't fix you because I'm broken too.**

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He takes you there four months after you two begin whatever you are.

It's beautiful, as all things in Rome are. The church arches tall, as if reaching out to touch God's hand; an impertinence that could only be absolved by years in damnation, however, for a building as beautiful as the one before you, it seems to only be an innocent gesture, as if it were simply, and rightfully, staking its claim among the divine. The windows are stained a thousand different shades and the light beams through them, creating a rainbow splayed carelessly upon the mahogany benches. There is no one else there besides an old preacher, his white hair thinning at the top, and the whole place resounds with the sound of quiet.

It's large, beautiful, and intimidating, which means you love it right away.

But you can't help but wonder what a guy like Carter Baizen is doing bringing you to church.

As a rule of thumb, Upper East Side-er's don't do churches—not even the deserters—and most believed that they would disintegrate the moment their peep-toe Gucci pumps touched the old marble floors. In fact, the last time you were at a church was two years ago, when you wanted to make sure you could get a refund for the previous night.

For a fraction of a second your heart stops and you look down at your unadorned ring finger, before waving the panic and nausea away.

You're just about to sit down on a bench and drink in the rainbows when Carter tugs at your hand and pulls you through a backdoor, out of the church, and into a quiet meadow.

It's beautiful here too, all sunlight and breeziness and wildflowers. Beautiful in a careless way that only the whirling-twirling Malibu Barbie blondes of the world could manage—you instantly misses the dark caverns of the church, but his hand is still clasped around yours and pulling you forward.

Abruptly he stops.

Before you lies a smooth gravestone with the initials C.L. etched in it.

The two of you stand there for a long time (stretched even longer by the silence that you desperately wish to break, but you're too afraid to).

You've been at a graveyard only once before and it wasn't exactly the best memory.

"Her name is Clarissa Langton."

The voice startles you, and just for an instant you wonder who's speaking before reminding yourself that it's just Carter. You glance at him puzzled, but he's still staring straight ahead.

"Her favorite color was green. She said she loved green because she loved my eyes. She said that they were the most beautiful things she'd ever seen, but she was wrong. Her eyes were green too; an unforgettable green."

"And she loved lilies, the smell of rain, ladybugs, grass, and dandelions. And sunlight. She loved sunlight." His voice is a pitch above monotone.

"Sometimes, when she wanted something, she'd smile at me, and the sunlight would hit her face, and her smile would light up her green eyes, and suddenly the whole world would be yellow and green." His voice is hoarse, and you remember hearing that voice once before, as you held onto a boy who sobbed I'm sorry, I'm sorry into your black coat and beret. Somehow you think Carter's saying sorry too.

"She had this t-shirt that I got her from Sea World; it was her favorite t-shirt even though she had so much couture clothing. She wore it so much that she wore a hole in the back that would always smell like jasmine, even though she loved lilies." Carter says this with his brow furrowed, as if his life depended upon solving this mystery, and you almost believe it does.

"And she was so smart, had so much potential, but she wanted to be a teacher when she grew up. Carter, she said, we've been given so much, and I just want to give back a little bit. You understand? If anyone else had said that to me, I wouldn't, but because it was Clarissa, I did; even when no one else did. When she told her parents they got so mad; they threatened to throw her out of the house. They begged me; Carter, they said, Carter, you know her so well. Carter, please talk some sense into her. Promise us, Carter, promise us you'll protect her, even from herself. Protect her. Please, please, please. Carter, Carter, Carter. " His voice turns begging before being carried off and disappearing into the slight breeze.

"I loved her," he murmurs, "I loved her, and I killed her."

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You two stand there in the clearing for a long time, and you stare at the gravestone of a girl you've never met but now know almost as well as your best friend.

Carter keeps talking. Dr. Sherman, your physiatrist, once told you that sometimes people were like a filled up tub, and one you pull the plug, everything has to run out.

Carter has pulled the plug, and you sit by him helplessly, not knowing now to keep him from leaking out.

He tells you that he knew her since third grade. The teachers, he explains, sat them next to each other for three years in a row because they had wanted to arrange kids in alphabetical order by first names. Carter laughs at the nonsensicality of it all, and you want to shake him by the shoulders and tell him that it's not important, but then you think that to him it just might be.

He says that she had straight brown hair, and moles littered all along her left arm. He says that her teeth were slightly crooked, and her smile imperfect. Probably could have used a good McSteamy makeover, he jokes. _I hated her, but she was beautiful, _he says.

He hated her for a long time, since third grade. He hated her, but she just kept smiling at him, as if she knew that one day he'd love her. And one day he did.

He tells you that they were friends first. Didn't rush into anything. He was bad, but she was good; she was pure light, and he couldn't bear to diminish that. So they were friends first. And when he first kissed her, the summer during their Sophomore year, he almost chickened out because he was so scared that everything would change, and not for the better. But then he kissed her, and he couldn't think anymore.

He paints memories for you. He tells you about their first date. Her dreams and aspirations. Her hobbies. The most important things she's ever said or done, and the insignificant things too, because, you realize, in Carter's mind, there's no difference. Then he swallows, and you suddenly remember.

You're with him now. You're with him and you are both on church property in front of a cold hard slab of rock.

"It was July sixteenth, and we were coming back from Butter, and Kenneth was driving the car. Kenneth the designated driver. We all laughed at him, sometimes in jest, sometimes because we were pissed out of our minds. That night I was sitting in the passenger seat, beside him, and I'd brought party favors. The rest of us, except from Clarissa and Kenny, had been drinking all night, and most of us had all already used.

I had waved the bag of white powder in Kenneth's face and laughed. I laughed so hard. 'Kenny, do you want some? Kenny? Kenny?' And everyone had laughed too. Everyone laughed like I was fucking Adam Sandler so I'd laughed some more. 'Does Kenny want some?' we'd all asked. And Clarissa had rolled her eyes, pushed the drugs away, and went to sit in the passenger seat beside Kenny, because she said I was being a pain in the ass, and if I kept messing with the driver, I'd get us all killed. And I got so mad you know? Mad and jealous because Kenny was a swimmer, and he was tan and athletic and hard-working and sober and perfect, and couldn't she see that the Kenny-jokes were so fucking hilarious?

So I yelled at her to stop being such a prude, and to remove the gold spoon shoved up her ass. And she'd just rolled her eyes. She just rolled her unforgettably green eyes and put her hand over my heart and pressed lightly and said, 'I hate it when you get like this.' And she went and took my seat.

She went and took my seat, and I went to sit in the back and made another joke, and Kenny turned around to reply, just for a second, and some idiot ran a red light, and the passenger door got completely smashed into the car, and she died on impact, and suddenly the Kenny-jokes weren't so funny anymore."

"I just thought you should know," he states. "That's why I left the Upper East Side. Because I wanted forever with her, and I could have had it, and then all of a sudden I couldn't anymore, and I had no one to blame but myself and that world."

"Just thought you should know," he repeats.

Your heart seizes and you're sad and disgusted and you feel a thousand things at once, or maybe you feel nothing at all.

You have no idea what you want to do, but you do know what you have to do.

So this time, it is you reaching for his hand and pulling him out of there, because you don't think either of you could spend another moment in that place.

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**Before you could catch your breath you're pulling him out of the water.**

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You two sit by a fountain and you both don't talk. For a couple as witty as the both of you, there's a surprisingly large quantity of silence.

There's a thousand things running through your head, _it's going to be okay, let me help you, it's not your fault_, but you've said all these things before, to another dark haired brunette, and they didn't work the last time.

Somehow you don't think they'll be more potent this time around.

So you decide to do what you do best—pretend to be oblivious to the problem at hand (pink elephants seemed to be constant accessory to most of your outfits, and you've long since befriended the now almost seemingly friendly creature).

"It wasn't about Yale," you explain. "I know lots of people don't get into the college they want and they're perfectly okay, but it wasn't about Yale. It was about everything. It was about Serena never having any time for me because I was lacking a penis. It was about Cyrus swooping in and stealing Eleanor away from me. It was about my father looking at me like I was some sort of monster, and recognizing that look because I'd seen it on so many of my friend's faces. It was about my whole future, all my dreams and everything I had worked for, the one thing that was going right in my life, disappearing. It was about waking up in the mornings, not remembering who I was. It was about…" You drift off here, because even though you and Baizen aren't anything official and he kind of bared his soul, you still consider it bad manners to bring up ex-boyfriends.

"Well, it wasn't about Yale," you say.

"It was about Chuck?" He prods, honey eyes peering at you with a single fair eyebrow lifted.

"Yeah," you admit, "it was about that too."

You falter. You haven't talked about Chuck in a while, no one knew who you were in NYU much less who you used to love, and whoever said time heals all wounds was never stung by the special venom of a Bass before.

"Anyways," you continue, "I'm just saying. I've run away before. I ran here."

He nods, then smirks a bit (the trademark smirk that's passed on from generation to generation of St. Jude boys with the potency to destroy your heart, no matter where you are in the world, or who you're with), "great minds think alike."

It's a tired cliché with no wit or satire or originality, but he's still breaking and not even ready to consider putting himself together, so you cut him some slack.

You grab his hand, and take him home.

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**He screams and screams and nothing comes out, but you still hear it. **

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Your phone rings in the middle of the night, and when you pick up your heart stops.

You briefly wonder how he got your number, but that's never really mattered before, and now, as the stillness chokes you, you don't think you've ever cared less.

"Do you love him?" He asks; his voice crackling with static and alcohol.

"Yes."

"Like you love me?"

You're quiet, hoping that the silence could muffle the truth, but like always, he hears what you don't say louder than the things that you scream at him, over and over again.

"You know, I think if I had a soul, you'd be my soul mate."

He hangs up and you go to pack your bags.

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**The end is coming, so close your eyes and try not to cry.**

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He's not your choice.

He's not your choice but he is a choice, and you aren't quite sure how Carter Baizen ended up being someone you could see yourself having a Maybe-Someday with, much less someone you could have had a Definitely-Today with. It's odd and terrifying and amazing.

Carter Baizen was a great love; you didn't expect him to be, but he surprised you.

But he's still not your choice.

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Carter takes you to the airport and kisses your lips; hard first, then soft, then hard again until you're all dizzy and he lets you go. His green eyes bore into yours and there's a moment where you know that if you give the slightest inclination he'd follow you anywhere. It's not a game anymore and just the slightest nod of your head he'd fight to stay with you, no matter how many threats of Santorini were thrown his way.

So you board the plane without looking back.

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**A/N I need your reviews like Serena needs a bra!**


	3. Dan

(A/N I'm sorry it took so long to update, now that the SATs are over I was finally able to edit this and finish it up.

And okay, I know what you're thinking. Oh God, it's long. I know, because that's what I'm thinking too. At twenty-five pages this clocks in as the longest thing that I've ever written in my short, short life. And, I know, I know. It's a Dan chapter, not a Chuck chapter. The thing is I had always planned for it to be this way, because though Blair is closer to being ready for a relationship after Nate and Carter, Chuck hasn't developed at all, so if they were to get together, things would merely fall apart again. But don't worry, there will be sufficient drama in the next two chapters (both Chuck, I promise) to make up for this massive rambling that is Dan.

As always: if you catch a mistake just let me know! My brain kind of gave up on this after the first ten pages.)

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**The Roadmap to Self-Discovery: Dan**

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.Never mind searching for who you are. Search for the person you aspire to be. ~Robert Brault.

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**This was not how the story was supposed to go, but she's here now and that matters.**

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It's Serena that brings you the news.

She is, after all, the one who comes to pick you up. When she arrives she's all ebullient, busty, and blonde, and once again she reminds you of the life-sized Malibu Barbie that you never had because your mother felt that it was demeaning to women, and set impossibly high standards (as if hers were any easier to meet), and she would not, _not_, let her child possess a doll who's body ratio defy the most basic laws of physics, because if a person were to pair that waist with that bust she would simply topple over—Blair could not, and would never, get that doll, and that was the end of it, _Harold._

When Serena spots you she squeals with delight, a semi-mating call that causes all the men around her to turn towards the two of you and wonder if you guys are some sort of lesbian power couple (half of the men, you note with disgust, are smiling rather perversely), and pulls you towards her in a bone-crushing hug.

And you can't help but think, as you feel Serena's, erm, softer areas press into you and the smirks turn into chuckles, that it's rather good to be home.

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You make it halfway through the trip before you try to bring him up.

"So," you say, "how's the family?"

She makes a signal with her hand and turns into the left lane, "Oh, things are hectic as usual. Mom's _finally _getting around to marrying Rufus, God knows it took them long enough, and she wants everything to be perfect, because, and I quote, 'a woman can only get married so many times Serena.' So now she's driving everyone insane with her Bridezilla crap. I mean just the other day Mindy, her wedding planner, came into the bathroom while I was showering, to ask me my preference for the color of the bridesmaid dresses."

"Teal," you say automatically, "you look good in teal."

"Can't," she says, waving your suggestion away with a brisk sweep of her hand, "I've already wore that for Klaus with a K."

"Oh right."

"But I guess I shouldn't complain," Serena says, blowing a strand of golden hair off of her face, "I mean the situation is pretty bad, but it's no Claus with a C."

"Ah yes, Claus with a C."

You both allow a moment of silence to commiserate.

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You barely make it another fifteen minutes before you try again.

You've sat on your hands, bit on your lower lip, and squirmed about on the seat all just to try and keep it in, but that only caused Serena to ask if she needed to pull over at a rest-stop so you could go and use the washroom, and when you grudgingly unclenched your jaw to say no, the rest of the words just accidentally tumble out right after it.

"So, how's Eric?" you ask, re-claiming your title as Queen of Passive Aggressive.

"Oh he's fine. He's handling the Lilly and Rufus, This Is True Love shtick rather well, considering that just last year we were aboard the Lilly and Bart Bass Love Boat."

Your ears perk at the sound of Bass.

"It's actually quite funny," Serena continues, "since Rufus doesn't really know what to do with a gay son. Jonathan came over last night and Rufus just turned kind of red and grunted at them to 'have fun' before he realized what that sounded like, and then there was a lot of stuttering and hand gesturing."

You laugh, and then because you simply cannot contain it, you blurt out, "And Chuck? How's Chuck?"

Serena leans forward and twiddles with a knob on the car stereo, her blonde hair drawing a curtain between the two of you.

"I'm sure Chuck's fine too," she says lightly.

You nod.

"But the thing is," Serena says, her eyes glued to the road as if she were in the middle of a driving test, "I wouldn't really know, B."

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You know it's bad when Serena pulls over on the side of the highway.

She's a nervous driver and hates getting on and off what she calls 'The Deathtrap', claiming that all drivers got a little sadistic and vindictive (words left over from her foray into the literary and artistic world) once they were freed from the burden of stoplights.

A sudden wave of panic hits you, because even though she said Chuck was fine maybe she'd meant 'fine' in a more general, he's-fine-and-his-funeral-is-on-Wednesday-so-yay-you-didn't- miss-it, kind of way.

"B, there's something I have to tell you."

You know it's stupid and irrational, but somehow you can't breathe.

"B, he's gone."

You pale.

"Dead?" You manage to croak.

"No!" Serena shakes her head fervently, but then lowers her eyes and gulps."He got really drunk one night and then the next day he left for Paris before any of us were even awake. We didn't even know he wasn't in the house until he called Eric from the Bass Jet. And I wanted to tell you but I didn't know exactly where he was since he moved around a lot after Paris, and I didn't even know where you were, so I tried calling your dad but he just said that he hadn't seen you since your visit a while back, and Chuck had told me that I shouldn't bother you because he thought you were happy and apparently with Carter and so I just kind of gave up." She blurts it out in one quick exhale, as if she was worried that you'd interrupt her with your meltdown before she could get her story out.

Serena peers are you uncertainly, "I'm sorry B."

You know she's expecting you to freak out; to scream at her or to rip off the leather upholstery of the car, but you remain still.

It shouldn't matter; it doesn't matter, you correct yourself, because you came back for you, not for him.

Except, you spent the last hour on the plane combing your hair and applying your make-up because you were hoping that he'd surprise you with a bouquet of peonies like the summer from a thousand years ago. Except that he called you in the middle of the night and made you think that he finally realized that you're his soul mate; that he'd finally stopped running.

You didn't get on that plane for him and you didn't leave Carter for him (except you kind of did.)

Oh God, you still can't _fucking_ breathe.

You don't realize your crying until you taste your warm salty tears.

"Oh B," Serena murmurs, and reaches out for you.

Normally you'd be embarrassed, because even though you two are sisters you're also competitors and its bad form to break down in front of the enemy. Besides, it's always been Serena's role to be the messed up princess that you have to put back together. And, most importantly, Blair Waldorf is not weak, and weeping helplessly in the passenger seat of your best friend's smart car is generally considered weak.

But right now it doesn't matter because the thought _he ran away again_ runs through your blood stream with every pump of your broken heart.

So all you can do now is crumple into your Serena's arms (right now she's not a rival, or the bitch that slept with your boyfriend, or even the blonde Amazonian princess that everybody overlooks you for; she's just your best friend) while hot tears slide down your cheeks, glad that, at least this time, she stayed.

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**It's not exactly Grace Kelly, but it's closer because practice did always make perfect.**

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This time it doesn't take as long to recover.

This time it only takes three tubs of ice cream, two crying jags with Serena, twelve viewings of Breakfast at Tiffany's, and three sad-drunk calls to his number so you could listen to his voice on the answering machine. Then two weeks later, you are completely fine.

A speedy recover since you've had enough practice, you think bitterly (not bitterly, you amend, since your _fine-just-fine_; you're just _slightly_ peeved).

Since Carter you've grown and shed some of that Waldorf skin that you used to cling to so desperately, and now you realize, for maybe the first time, that just because your heart is broken doesn't mean that it's the end of the world.

Maybe it's time to move on.

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**It's just like the last time only this time its good news. **

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Dean Bearaby retires in the middle of the third quarter of your sophomore year.

Once again, it's Serena that brings you the news.

You're sitting on your bed when she rushes into your sanctuary with her blonde hair streaming behind her and she pulls you into a tight hug. It's so good to see you, she says, and you reply with a smile because it's good to see her too.

She is shoveling low-fat frozen yogurt when she suddenly stops her spoon midway to her mouth, looks up from the carton, and peers at you.

"Oh Blair, did you know that Dean Bearaby is retiring?"

Apparently, she says, he's retiring for 'health reasons', which Serena gathered to mean his wife was anxious to move him away from New Haven and the twenty year old teaching assistant with the plastic breasts, and since Mrs. Bearaby's brother was the CEO of a prominent company that many members of the school board invested in, Dean Bearaby was only too happy to comply.

The new guy was supposed to be some young pampered child with a handful of connections, and an 'innovative plan' for the future, and was, consequently and ironically enough, a distant relative of Mrs. Bearaby; Dean Bearaby hated him.

Serena tells you this while she leans in, pausing to scoop more sugar-less dessert into her mouth. She knows this because Lilly had heard it from Mrs. Cummings, the wife of a minor board member, who heard it straight from the horse's mouth, and Mrs. Cummings would like to know if Lilly could be a dear and please, oh please, ask Eleanor if she would make her a Waldorf Original for the Yale Gala, since she knew that Eleanor and Lilly were such _good_ friends. She would ask herself, _of course_, but she didn't want it to bring it up since she heard that poor Blair didn't get in to Yale, and she really didn't want to bring up such a _sensitive_ subject (though one couldn't really fathom how Lilly bringing it up would be able to defuse the taut nerves).

Serena rolls her eyes as she says this and you both giggle while secretly crossing your fingers behind your backs, sending up a quick prayer that the two of your won't end up pedestrian UES frozen princess's past your expiration dates.

When Serena finishes the two of you remain quiet; Serena whispers that she is in a sugar coma (strange, considering the fact that the frozen yogurt contained no sugar) before falling against your headboard, and you collapse beside her, mauling over this new fact in your mind.

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**This is one of those cheesy moments where the music swells and the heroine takes a stand. **

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You pick up an application form with shaking hands.

You turn it over and over and over in your hands, all the while the bulldog blue staring back at you.

Yale has been your dream ever since you were eight, and just because your dreams changed and got bigger, doesn't mean that Yale hasn't always been there, in the background, the small fragment that was present in every single dream.

The words _Lux et veritas _are emblazoned across the front.

Light and truth.

Things that you once believed you could be, before realizing that you were everything but (you live in a world of darkness and lies, and you _are _the epitome of the Upper East Side).

Three years ago this school told you that if you weren't light and truth something was wrong with you and you believed it, but now you realize that your okay with being darkness and lies, and the world was a shade of grey, and who were they to tell you otherwise?

You are a Waldorf-Rose, and that means something, has always meant something, and you've never been one to pretend it doesn't; you forgot this a long time ago, but you remember it now.

So you head home to fill out the application.

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**She snatched your thunder, but at this point it's not even a surprise. **

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The day your acceptance letter comes is the day you get the personal blast from Gossip Girl.

Over the years you've gathered countless text-messages from the cyber-stalker, but only a couple of which are personally dedicated to you.

You were the Queen of the Upper East Side but Gossip Girl prides herself on being a voice of the people, and doesn't like to address a person in particular and mark them as superior to the others (or at least that's what you suppose the hypocritical bitch is thinking).

So you know that's its going to hurt when you see the words 'To Blair Waldorf' emblazoned on the title of the blast.

Hesitantly, you scroll down, only to be greeted by what seems to be a picture of your best friend and your ex-boyfriend in a rather passionate lip lock. _Dear B, something for you to chew on. Bon appetite! XOXO. _

You feel like throwing up, or just throwing your cell phone against the wall of your room, but you settle for simply angrily deleting the post.

But as your finger hovers over the delete button, you decide not to, because even though you hate the contents, it's not every day that Gossip Girl personally emblazons a blast.

(Five minutes later Dorota calls you downstairs for strudel and you see your Polish maid holding a thick packet from Yale with a holy reverence.)

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**After all this time, I still love you best.**

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Serena calls you the next day, one consecutive call after another until you pick up.

Apparently Lilly (the Van der Woodsen nanny) didn't teach her proper etiquette because she starts the conversation off with, "Ohmigod Blair, please forgive me. Nate came to visit me, and we were drunk, and ohmigod B, itjusthappened. I'msosorry."

It all comes rushing out of her, and then there's nothing left to say so she just waits silently, her breathes coming out in audible puffs.

It's kind of like déjà vu, but not the good type that can star A-list actors like Densel Washington. It's the bad type that seems to be constantly plaguing your life because this was your worst nightmare for ten years, your constant insecurity, and now that it's happened, yet again, you feel the breath being knocked out of you and you flash back to that awful moment in Serena's little red car where there didn't seem to be enough oxygen in the world for your massive lungs.

You hear her voice and her quiet bated breath and you suddenly get the urge to drop-kick something, or to expose another one of Serena's horrible secrets to the public, or pull her hair and beat her continuously with a lacrosse stick.

Except.

Except, you don't really mind, because you let go of Nate a long time ago, and you know that she loves him, even if she doesn't quite yet. The truth is Serena and Nate were kind of inevitable too, just a different brand of inevitable that only sunshine and goodness and general denseness could achieve—you were just too caught up in your own undeniable love story that you didn't have the time to see it. Nate's the Chuck to Serena's Blair, and you're just upset that, once again, Serena got the happily ever after that you didn't.

A thousand years ago you could have killed someone, and you almost did, but Serena's your sister and Nate used to be more important than that, but he's not anymore.

"It's ok."

Your life consists of the worst type of déjà vu but you're easing into it with age.

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**That little strip of red on your Louboutins declares your arrival.**

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You arrive at Yale in a limo.

You had thought about arriving in a town car because you didn't want to seem pretentious, but you wanted to make an impression; besides, there is something sacred about limos and there is something sacred about Yale, so in true Blair Waldorf fashion, you combine the two together.

As it is, it seems like you've made the right choice (as usual) when half the campus turns from what they're doing to ogle you. Half the boys that Chuck had gotten into a fight with turn toward the limo and crack their knuckles menacingly, but when Gaston opens the door and they see your legs peek out of the black vehicle their expressions change completely.

You're a Waldorf, and as the student body watches you climb up the marble steps of the holiest of the holy trinities in your Louboutins, you know for certain.

You'll own Yale.

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**It's high school all over again, only better, but somehow it's still not enough.**

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As it turns out, you do.

It's not like at NYU where you had to water yourself down so the gentlefolk weren't overwhelmed. Most kids here were born with money so the girls just love, love, love your clothes and think your headbands are so _adorable_, and the boys are even more fanatical, bowing before your feet in a way that they only did for Serena, because now they're looking for real relationships and girls they could bring home during Spring Break, and your breeding and propriety attract them like Serena's carefree nature and endless enthusiasm (by which you mean bosom) did.

The schoolwork is more challenging, but you always did love a good opponent and you tackle the homework like you tackled little Jenny Humphrey on her birthday, like you tackled Serena on the lacrosse field, like you've tackled every opposing force your entire life. And, like everything else that foolishly decides to pitch itself against you, it falls to your feet quickly and efficiently.

And so, it's just like Constance again, where you're invited to every party and you're surrounded by people who love you(r things), except there's no Nate, Serena, and Chuck. The Non-judging Breakfast club has been disbanded, and though you love Yale since people here genuinely seemed to prefer the Blair Waldorfs to the Serena Van der Woodsens, you can't help but feel the worse for it.

Maybe that's why when you see Daniel Humphrey slouching across campus with his literature books tucked under his arms chatting away with some of his artistic hobo friends that look like they could use a couple of showers, you call out to him.

His head snaps around and he glances at you warily, uncertain if he should approach you, so you call out his name again, this time accompanied by a beckoning finger. His friends, two un-washed girls that looked like lesbians who have just escaped the federal prison and three boys that are equally unclean with floppy hair that probably possess an entire habitat of micro-organisms, widen their eyes; one boy even pushes back his hair to gain a better view of you.

Dan runs his fingers through his hair once (longer since he felt that it made him look like an artiste, but you just think it makes him look like a homeless douche-bag), and slowly approaches you.

"Blair, I heard you were at Yale."

He says this in a half sigh (that you choose to accept as a long exhale from all the strenuous exercise that walking six steps to approach is sure to provide), half smile.

You never really liked the boy who wielded righteousness and judgment as his sword and, so often, stabbed your best friend in the chest, but he's a piece of the Upper East Side, a shabby piece but a piece none-the-less, and so you hold on.

"Cabbage Patch," you smirk.

.

.

.

**Thank God for the tetanus shot you got when you had Handsome.**

**.**

**.**

You wake up with a Humphrey beside you and you wonder if you're in the twilight zone.

It's not the first time you've woken up with a Humphrey, however Little J's been exiled for a long time (and even when she was part of the elite she never rose quite high enough to claim the honor of sleeping right beside you), and you're not in high school anymore.

And, of course, there's also the fact that it's the wrong Humphrey.

When you realize which Humphrey it is exactly, you have a slight stroke.

The first coherent thought you manage to have is a panicked speculation as to whether or not you had your tetanus shot yet. Then after you realize that Dorota would have never forgotten something as important as the medical necessities of her Ms. Blair, you relax slightly before the second horrible thought hits you.

You've just slept with your best friend's first love.

Aw shit.

Five minutes later when your heart is beating out of your chest like it does when you have finish an extra large latte that Serena forgets to order de-caf (because both you and Dorota are too competent to make such a grievous error and the rest of the minions were well versed that wrong coffee equals social suspension) Humphrey stirs a bit, and you dart away from him, but his hand shoots out too fast. His heavy arm lands around your bare middle and there is a slight oomph sound upon impact.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" The words barge out of your mouth instinctively; if it was any other day and you were properly clothed you would have beheaded this boy already for knocking the wind out of you.

"Wh-wh-wha?" The boy says as he rubs his eyes and then suddenly he sees you.

It all happens extremely quick. His eyes shoot open, his hands lift off you, and his mouth falls agape all at the same time in less than a second. You've got to admit; though Dan was not the brightest bulb in the shed, his motor skills weren't half bad.

"Blair?" He asks, eyes puzzled and suspicious, asking for an explanation, as if you sprawled next to him in the nude was part of some elaborate plot to put one of your underlings in their place, or to make life miserable for the corn-shucker even though she'd clicked her heels three times and jetted off to Kansas, leaving you to clean up the mess that you'd both made.

"Blair?" He asks again, "what are you doing here?"

You bite your tongue, _teaching your Cabbage Patch doll tricks, _you want to snap, but you have to admit (you'd gladly admit if you weren't so annoyed right now) that a plot or a scheme would be a more plausible explanation for the scene that is laid out in front of you, than the fact that you had sex with Dan Humphrey.

You can feel the familiar feeling of bile rising to your mouth again—this time it's the natural kind, and you yank the sheets off of a now shivering Humphrey and scurry into his grimy, puke-green bathroom.

After you hurl, you realize that your clothes are strewn all over the cold tiles, and you hurriedly pick them up and put them on.

The thought hits you while you are smoothing out the wrinkles in your clothes. You wonder how many times Serena has done this right in this spot.

.

.

.

**Apparently he's trying usurp the grandfather and make something out of nothing.**

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.

After the Awkward Sex Moment you avoid Brooklyn Boy like the plague.

Normally during lunch period you'd beckon him to sit somewhere near you (but not so close that he and his friends could contaminate your very large personal bubble), and when you were finished with your salad and low-fat yogurt, you'd walk by his table on the way to the trashcan and you'd smirk, 'Humphrey.' He'd nod in reply and sometimes you'd stop to talk about your one mutual class (English Lit; it killed him that you were making a better grade than him) before your attention was called away by a suitor.

But the two of you haven't acknowledged each other's presence since, so imagine your surprise when a slightly irked but very determined Daniel Humphrey marches up to your table.

"Erm, Blair?"

You turn towards him, arms crossed and eyebrows raised.

"This isn't the soup kitchen," you snap.

He rolls his eyes, and mentions that there's going to be a Hepburn exhibition. Apparently, they'll be playing the best of Audrey's movies in some little café turned theater somewhere in Brooklyn, and there's going to be a new one each week. It's supposed to be quite neat, he says, the movie would be played on the giant asphalt wall in front of the café. Like a real drive-in theater from the time when Audrey's movies were coming out.

You glare straight ahead, not even sparing a glance when he rips off a corner of his notebook paper and scribbles an address on it.

"Seven o'clock, on Friday," he says. "They're starting with Roman Holiday."

Then with a toss of his shaggy hair he begins to walk back to his table.

"Will there be Breakfast's at Tiffany's?"

"Yeah," he turns around and grins, "eventually."

.

"Why'd you invite me here Humphrey?" you ask when Audrey disappears from the screen and Gregory Peck tells Eddie Albert that he won't be selling Anne's pictures to the press.

Dan opens his mouth and it looks like he's about to spew some crap about how he just thought it would be something that you'd enjoy, but you cut him off with a withering glare, warning him not to lie to you.

He shrugs, and sighs, resigned.

"I just didn't want to be the guy who leaves things without giving them a chance."

Your heart clenches tight and your fists tighten into balls beside your lap and just for a moment (less than a breath really) you're brought back to when you woke up alone in a silk dress realizing that ohgodhe'sgone.

So it's no surprise that when Audrey Hepburn turns towards Gregory Peck with a wistful smile on her face that your own eyes are glistening, because you suddenly understand better than ever; it's never the right guys that stay.

.

.

.

**He's no leading man, but someone should give the whipping boy a chance too, right?**

.

.

It's like you're stuck in some weird time warp or alternate universe because there was no way, absolutely no way, that a Waldorf would ever date someone that lived in a small green loft and still owned dolls.

You're not being snobby, you're just being practical. Poor people are hosts to more diseases, and more likely to be part of a hate crime some time in life, and generally don't age as well. See? Practical.

Not that it matters, since you don't like him; you just like spending time with him.

Okay, maybe you like him a little too.

Whatever, maybe Humphrey can just be that cute anecdote that you tell when you're drunk.

(_Ha ha, remember that time when I exposed myself to rabies for no other reason but my raging hormones? Oh Blair, you are so outrageous!_)

.

.

.

**Hey karma's a bitch, you know that better than anyone.**

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.

At the age of twenty-one you are well versed on the fact that there are many things in life that are hideously unpleasant. In fact you were once the dealer of such unpleasant tasks (still are, if you're to be honest) such as clean the yogurt off of my shoes, go throw some laxatives in that girls drink, let that slobbery half-bald man in the corner feel you up (perhaps, you think now, you may be partially to blame for Hazel's habit of collecting antique men).

You've also been on the receiving end of said unpleasant tasks many times before (you've cleaned pudding-stained shoes once during freshman year, slipped laxatives to Principle Weller twice, and made out with a junior associate of the Bass Firm three times) but never before have you ever faced anything as nauseatingly unpleasant as telling your best friend that you're currently dating the boy with whom she had her first real relationship.

You're not sure about the first love thing because you have an inkling suspicion that it may be your ex-boyfriend, which somewhat eases the nausea but does nothing for the general unpleasantness that you are sure the exchange will bring.

But no matter how displeasing or, dare you say it, violent the meeting may be, you are still a Waldorf, and a Waldorf does not back away under any circumstances (no matter how pointy Serena's heels are). Besides, you figure you have some advantage as you've arranged the time and place of the meeting. Well, that and the fact that you generally do well in confrontations.

You run through all this in your mind, and then again, as you twiddle your thumbs and await your (current) best friend. Mid-speech you hear the bells above the door jingle (one of the many reasons why you picked this place) and you see a flicker of gold as you look up. Quickly you take in her skinny jeans and dull brown flats (contrasting with the metallic D&G sundress that served as both a cocktail dress and armor) and you gather all the courage you can muster up, and get ready to tell her everything.

You have a whole speech prepared. First, you'll tell her ask her about how Nate's doing to prey on any feelings of guilt or remorse, and then you'll ask about Eric which will inadvertently make her think about how she broke everyone's heart when she left out of the blue, prompting Eric to commit suicide and you to fall even deeper into the well of despair that worsened your bulimia, and simultaneously make her think of the last time you brought up Eric and how she hadn't told you that Chuck had disappeared to nowhere and how'd you'd cried in her arms for hours on end which will both stimulate pity and a warm glow of friendship. Next, you'll ask about her current boy toys, and giggle with her as she shows you the pictures of Mark, Jack, and Terence who are all in love with her, but she remains adamant that they'll stay 'just friends'. Finally, you'll suddenly become morose and twiddle with your thumbs as you stare into your half-finished tea, and she'll become all concerned and plead with you to tell her what's wrong. And it's then that you'll look up at her from underneath your eyelashes and tell her that you're kind of, sort of, seeing Dan Humphrey.

"Blair!" Serena calls out; eyes light as reaches the table. "I've missed you so—"

"I'm dating Dan Humphrey."

.

Old Serena would have pitched a fit, perhaps thrown something or cried big fat baby tears before running off with Georgina and get wasted, letting a too-old pedophile feel her up in the corner of a bar as you searched frantically for her. As it is, you've got a town-car reserved and all of the nearest bars on speed dial, but New Serena just sits there and listens and the words spill out from your lips.

You tell her that you're so sorry, and you had never thought that this would have happened in any alternate universe much less this one, because he's from Brooklyn and he takes public transportation to school every day and that's just so disgusting, but you're getting off point. You tell her that you missed her, and you missed Nate, and you missed him (here you look up to shoot her a look only to discover that she's staring at her un-manicured hands, but she's still your sister so she understands) and you missed the Upper East Side, and Dan was all you had left of it. You tell her about Carter, and how when you were traveling you lost pieces of yourself, and that was good because you didn't really like Old Blair, but you missed _this _piece of you, the Upper East Side piece, and Dan, though a shabby Brooklyn replacement, was all you had. You tell her that you know that it's wrong; you know that it breaks girl code, and you never wanted to hurt her, but it just happened and he's Dan, and somehow the two of you can actually talk about real things, and you've never had this before, at least not without the fear of being taboo or cliché. But, you tell her, if this hurts her in any way, you'll stop seeing him, because she's your sister, and you love her more than you'll ever love anyone else (except him, but she knows this too), and you just _can't_ not know her.

Finally, at the end of your tirade, she looks up.

A slight flash of pain runs through her clear blue eyes before she shrugs.

"You're happy with him. Dan's a healer," she says with authority. She smiles, clear blue eyes lifting in the corners as she carefully regards you, "it'll be ok."

(I owe you that much is unsaid, but you hear it anyway.)

.

.

.

**This is not love (but maybe you prefer it).**

.

.

The two of you talk literature, and it's almost perfect.

He's read every book you've read, and despite the fact that he practically lived in the sewers of the Upper East Side and had hideously long hair that no straight boy could pull off, he's almost your equal (intellectually, of course).

There are no terms of affection, no fire and passion, no clandestine kisses, no confessions of dead almost-fiancés, no heirloom ring; instead, there is just you, him, a cup of coffee, and a heated discussion.

One afternoon you spend the whole day sitting at a café, arguing about Breakfast at Tiffany's. He stated that Truman Capote's version was much better (blasphemous in your book), saying that Capote's portrayal of both Holly Golightly and Paul Varjack was more gritty and realistic, and while Audrey's Holly was charming, he felt that the movie romanticized some of the more haunting parts of the story. You then spent the next two and a half hours trying to make him realize how much better the movie was, and how Audrey hadn't tried to gloss over difficult issues but rather added an air of tragic beauty to the character.

Voices are raised, coffee is spilt, and the cashier comes over twice to ask you to keep your voice down. At the end of the two and a half hours your throat is raw, your hands are sore from all the gesturing, and the staff is shooting glares at the two of you, yet Dan still refuses to admit that the movie could possibly be better than the novel. Grudgingly, the two of you pick up your bags and walk out the door, deciding to view the movie at your dorm later that night.

Slowly, you learn that you don't have to be epic to be happy.

.

.

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**It's like a treadmill; you're running out of breath but you're still in the same spot. **

.

.

You're not fixed.

You probably should be, you think, since you've always been exceptionally fast at mastering things and (you can almost hear Eleanor's voice breathe out a long winded sigh) it's been long enough, _Blair_; you've tried therapy twice already.

But the thing is people just expect you to be okay. You're Queen B, ninety-five (ninety-six, but you'll wear poly-blend before you admit that) pounds of pure girly evil; you rule the Upper East Side with an iron fist and a rhinestone headband for a tiara. You aren't the pathetic girl who counts every calorie she eats and then posts a video on YouTube, telling the world that she's only had three grapes today, and oh-mi-god, that's going to make her so fat so she needs to go throw up, like, now.

But a tiny, dirty part of you loves the thought of your faithful subjects seeing how far their Queen's tiara has fallen.

.

Your finger rummages around in the caverns of your mouth, trying to find that sweet spot. It's definitely not the first time that you've done this but it doesn't get any easier. You suppose that it would probably be less of a mess if you just controlled your calorie intake but you're just not good enough for that.

(Everybody runs away; Serena runs away to boarding school, Chuck runs away with booze and whores, Nate runs away with herbal cigarettes and dreams of golden princess's; and you're just kneeling before your porcelain god, begging ohgodpleasesomeonestay.)

_Next time, _you promise, _next time you won't do this._

(Next time, you promise, next time you'll be enough.)

But this time you rummaged around your mouth some more, your fingers prodding at all its favorite spots.

It all happens at once; there's a click at the door and you freeze and hasten to remove your finger but you accidently nick the spot instead and then everything's coming out and there's no way to stop it and _oh god _you look into the mirror and see Humphrey staring at you with curiosity and pity and pain and _disgust._

You jerk your gaze off the mirror and screw your eyes shut, feeling the bile burn its way out of you, saving you and destroying you at the same time, before wiping away the hot tears and rinsing out your mouth.

You take a deep breath and then spin towards the boy that's slumped against the bathroom's doorframe, your eyes fastening on his.

"Humphrey, you've been living in an after school special for too fucking long."

.

Carter cleaned you off once (Steady arms holding you down, trying to convince you that _everything's going to be okay._), Nate looked the other way (The bathroom again? You _really_ should talk to a doctor about your small bladder.), Chuck held back your hair as you spewed misery into a porcelain bowl, eyes burning but not in a good way, hating you, loving you, and understanding you all at the same time (I just had too much to drink Chuck, _honestly_), and Serena's picked you up countless times (B, why do you do this to yourself?), cleaned you up (Is it because of me?), put you to bed (I won't be like this anymore, _I promise B)_, and dragged you to therapy to talk about how _she _felt about _your _eating disorder (_You take everything from me._)

If you weren't teary-eyed, puke-breathed, and utterly mortified you would be scientifically curious as to Dan's reaction to the practice of self-regurgitation.

However, under current circumstance, you just want to get the hell out of there.

Dan's mouth, previously gaping open, is now set into a stern line, his eyes are dull and commanding, and you think that this is what Rufus Humphrey must look like if he was an authoritarian instead of a washed-up, medically-mellowed hippie.

"You need help."

This must be the twilight zone because there's nothing you can do but nod.

.

Dan tells you that you need to go to therapy; you tell him that there is no fucking way are you going to talk to yet another doctor who's Daddy bought him a PhD.

His eyebrows rise to his floppy man-bangs.

"Isn't the cynical-and-hypocritical-insider-who-scorns-the-Upper-East-Side my role?"

You roll your eyes and tell him that though you may be hunched over a toilet, you will never stoop low enough to rip-off a Humphrey.

His eyes harden, "Blair, that's not funny."

Right, you forgot. You've lived your life in the Upper East Side, where the Breakfast Club isn't composed of a freak, a stoner, a princess, a jock, and a nerd, but instead an alcoholic whore, a semi-rapist, a druggie, and an insecure bitch, that you've forgotten that Dan doesn't live in a world where drugs, lies, and cocaine lines are served with breakfast on sterling silver trays, and he probably believed that the princess and the stoner could have worked it out (you know better than that).

Okay, you tell him, that was a bad pun, but there's still no fucking way you're going to waste the money for a perfectly good Versace dress on some balding man to tell you how to fix something that isn't even an issue in the first place.

.

Two weeks later, you're going to therapy.

You did _not _concede; there is no way that you lost in a mind-game to Daniel fucking Humphrey, because though the two of you are now an item and you've come to realize that Cabbage Patch is actually a decent human being with (kinda) above average intelligence, under no circumstances, expect perhaps the apocalypse, could the Queen (dowager princess) of the Upper East Side bend to the will of a man who possessed a doll with a perpetually scrunched up face.

Not that he didn't try.

He morphed in stern!Humphrey and hovered for a week and a half, frown in place, unwilling to let you go to the bathroom for more than two minutes (I have a stopwatch Blair! You've got thirty-nine seconds left! ). It was all ridiculous and embarrassing and horrible, but your family is composed of a gay father who eloped to France with your mother's ex-model, a dwarf, an artist that is too pretentious to buy a razor, and Eleanor; all ridiculous, embarrassing, and horrible does is bring about a slight sense of nostalgia.

You change your mind ten days in.

You and Dan were in your private dorm room watching a Hitchcock movie because Dan believes that you should broaden your horizons, when you suddenly hear an odd noise coming from the bathroom. You turn towards Dan, because what's the point of watching a thriller with a boy if not to clutch at their arms until you cut off their circulation in order to passively punish them for being a pain in the ass for the last week and a half? But then you remember that Dan's in the washroom, so you scurry off to make sure that he hadn't died from choking on his own spit.

When you throw open your white oak door you're suddenly overcome by a wave of nausea that knocks you onto your knees.

Because there few things in the world more disturbing than the sight of Daniel Humphrey bent over your porcelain sink imported from France, with his finger buried deep in his throat.

He looks up at you, eyes dark, and shrugs, "I wanted to know what you were thinking."

A silence falls over the two of you, and even though you're superior in breeding, intellect, and social placing, you can't meet his eyes.

"Okay, I'll go to therapy."

.

Surprisingly, Dan's the one to find you a therapist.

You tell him that you already have a therapist (two) and that you can just stick with them, since they're supposed to New York's best, but he just shrugs and says that you don't live in New York anymore, and it'll be a long commute and do you really want to take public transportation twice a week?

You glare at him and give him your best Queen Bitch look before taking the white card from his hands.

.

Dr. Stevens, you note, will be a complete waste of time.

You knock hesitantly on his wood door frame to alert him of your presence, and he looks up at you as he removes his stylish spectacles and he grins at you, which only serves to enhance his cleft chin and striking cheekbones. He runs his hand through his salt-and-pepper hair as he sticks his other hand out, telling you that he was Dr. Steven and suddenly you're overwhelmed by a sense that you're trapped in a documentary called _Baywatch: Where Are They Now?_

Your eyes roam over his used-to-be-handsome face that's now sunken in, which probably only made him more popular with the older crowd, and you scoff slightly, because it's just your luck to be stuck for the next hour and a half with some guy who made all his money off of desperate housewives way past their prime.

Dr. Stevens blue eyes narrow slightly, and suddenly he's telling you about how he graduated from Yale and studied at John-Hopkins and is one of the finest psychiatrists in the tri-state area.

You don't know why but as he says this there is a certain air of confidence and capability to him, and though it's probably just that he reminds you George Clooney in an ER rerun, you can't help but immediately sit when he tells you to.

.

You tell Dr. Stevens that it's about your thighs.

They're just a little bit too wide, a little bit too soft, and a little bit too flabby; it's about your thighs.

It's also about your arms, because they're just a bit too thick and they jiggle when you move (you know this for sure, it's not just some neurosis backfiring, because you've seen the way Penelope smirks when you lift your arm up to wave at Serena).

And you guess it's about your waist, because when you sit down you can pinch yourself there, more than an inch, and you remember reading an interview in which Jennifer Aniston said that her publicist had freaked out when she realized that she could pinch more than a centimeter (after reading the article you had decided that you hated her and Brad and Angelina made much more sense).

It's not about self-worth, you tell Dr. Stevens, because you know who you are and you know that you're god-damned amazing. You love yourself, truly you do, but you were just trying to improve yourself, and is that really so wrong?

The raise of his eyebrow reminds you that, yes, it kind of is wrong when you're forcing food back up your esophagus.

.

At your third session, Dr. Stevens suggests that you two stay off the subject of eating disorders for a while. Let's talk about the other parts of your life, he says, leaning back in his chair and radiating the essence of a well-established PhD that you can't help but respect slightly (even though you still maintain that he is inept).

So you relent and tell him about your best friend Serena, and her long, long golden hair that seemed to mesmerize everyone she met and how she-used-to-be-a-crack-addict-and-opps-that-just-slipped; she's a reformed crack addict you correct yourself.

Dr. Stevens covers his mouth with his hands and lets out a cough that sounds suspiciously like a laugh.

You tell him about Nate and his pretty boy looks and his rosy pink cheeks, killer cheekbones, plump red lips, and sparkling blue eyes. We were supposed to get married, you inform him; that was the plan since the two of you were five years old. Dr. Stevens nods and makes a move to jot something down on his notebook, but you interrupt him when you tell him not to expect a wedding invitation any time soon.

You tell him about being the queen of the Upper East Side, and how you were the Queen B (a clever pun, he agrees) and how you meant something to _everyone_, and how you aced the test on hierarchy because you had, so efficiently, put it in place.

You tell him about Dan, and how things had kind of just happened, and you two never had _that _talk, and how normally that would bother you, but somehow this time it doesn't. You briefly muse out loud if maybe you caught something from Brooklyn that happened to dull your senses and emotions (you remember something from last night's _House _episode in which two patients were unable to feel happiness because of an infection), and ask him if he knew of anything that could do that to a person, but he just shakes his head and tells you to stop believing the fake-medicine on fake-medical shows.

After you're done, he looks up at you and pushes his glasses further up his nose.

"You're not telling me about something big, are you?"

An errant thought runs through your mind and dark eyes and dark hair flashes before your eyes, but you just snort and ask him if he's a shrink or a physic.

.

As it turns out, Humphrey is there for you.

Albeit it's more out of a self-righteous need to perfect people than it is about your relationship, but when your therapist's secretary (the ever-incompetent Miss. Jones) sends him an invite to a group-therapy session (in your opinion, just bogus created by a couple of gossip-whores) he comes.

Of course it's not much help as he brings up the day of your mom's fashion show.

All you remember is gallivanting around Manhattan taking vaguely risqué pictures with Serena, but he forces you to remember the bad parts too.

He tells you that when he saw you collapsed there in a puddle of your own tears (you thought he was a writer so couldn't he have picked a more attractive phrase?) you changed the way he saw his world; he thought that you were simple, but you made him realize that nothing in the Upper East Side was.

I see you, he says.

You think he doesn't, but maybe he sees who you will be.

.

Slowly but surely your therapy sessions dwindle from three times a week to two, and then finally down to once a week.

Dr. Stevens smiles at you, his already thin lips stretching upwards as he tells you that he's proud of you and that you've made an incredible amount of progress in an incredibly short amount of time.

You scoff and tell him that of course, you're Blair Waldorf, but as you flounce towards Dr. Steven's mahogany door doubt runs over your body and settles in a tight knot in your abdomen, and you clutch your Kate Spade tighter.

"Blair," Dr. Stevens calls after you. "Don't worry," he says, "you're ready."

You turn around and roll your eyes before placing your Prada shades on your nose and tell him that he worries too much.

.

You're not fixed, but you're getting there.

**.**

**.**

**.**

**Jealousy was always your green-eyed companion but now you don't miss it at all (well not really).**

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.

For the first time in your life you aren't jealous of Serena.

You're dating her ex-boyfriend and she was his first love and the golden-haired princess featured in all of his stories, but somehow you're not jealous. It's ironic really, since you've been unreasonably jealous of Serena for most of your life, and the one time it would be justifiable for you to want to claw her clear blue eyes out, you don't.

And the new inner peace doesn't come from your assurance of Humphrey's affections, or form some new yoga position that you've been trying out, and god knows you're not a pacifist. Instead, it's more of a mutual understanding. You're not his first love and he's not your first love (or your unforgettable one).

It's definitely not a redux of Nate, where his hands linger on the blonde siren for too long while you try to love enough for the both of you.

You've worked it into a perfect system really; don't ask, don't tell. The two of you never bring up how you had watched his brown eyes follow your best friend for every single year he'd been at St. Jude's, or how you'd wipe Serena's eyes whenever a Van der Humphrey spat occurred, and he doesn't bring up the time you came to him and he realized that somebody _loved _Chuck Bass and how your eyes had hardened, challenging him to tell you why it was so impossible for someone to love Chuck Bass, or how he'd been secretly rooting for the two of you all along (like goes with like; evil goes with evil).

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.

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**For so conventional a girl, your love language sure is radical.**

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.

You know that Humphrey is in love with you, or at least respects you (which is basically the same thing), when he hands you his manuscript with shaking hands.

He tells you that it's about you. Well, you and Serena and Chuck and Nate and your minions and even his little sister. He says that it's supposed to be an expose into the scandalous lives of Manhattan's elite, and you don't think you've ever heard anything stupider. But slowly, as you turn from page to page, you are shocked by the amount of _stuff_, stupid inconsequential petty stuff, that happens to you and Serena each week.

Wow, you think, your life could be televised.

You think about telling Humphrey that, because you're sure that he'll take it as some form of a compliment, but really, if it were televised it'd be the kind of show that would have failing ratings soon after the first season in its desperate attempts to prolong the scandal and intrigue the first few pages provided.

In short, his book is a flop.

"Your problem, Humphrey," you say as you finally lift your eyes off of the first twenty five and a half pages of his manuscript, "is that you're afraid to be horrible."

You tell him that he carries storylines half way and leaves characters half-developed in the vain hopes that they will remain likable to the reader, when in reality it just makes them feel contrived and unrealistic. It's not a bad story, you tell him, and some of his phrases are beautiful, but his book very literally needs to grow a pair of male reproductive organs.

As you say this, you watch your boyfriend's face droop slightly, because even though he knew that you'd give him a straight answer, he didn't expect it to hurt so bad.

"Well sadly, being horrible doesn't come so naturally to everyone Blair," he says, then flinches, expecting you to give him a verbal, if not literal, lashing for his overly candid comment.

You pause, then shrug.

'The world's a horrible place,' you think.

"I'm honest," you say.

It may be the most hypocritical thing you've ever said, but it's also the most truthful.

Dan nods unhappily, but when you leave the coffee shop he's still holding your hand.

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**Dark things always linger (thank God). **

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He calls you every day.

Just to talk, he says. And, as always, he remains true to his word (his word to you, at least, is always kept) and never goes beyond just talking. Sometimes he doesn't even talk; he just sits there on the other line breathing and listening to you breathe.

The calls are always short, less than two minutes, as if he was afraid that you'd have the call traced and fly over to his location as if the two of you were starring in a better-dressed sequel to Mission Impossible. It makes you want to scoff because, as usual, Chuck Bass puts too much thought into these things, and you can just picture him sitting in some shabby hotel with a stopwatch before him, counting the seconds of the phone call. As if you would trace his calls (you've only had Fred, your P.I, try once, but he said that out of the country calls were near impossible and would take a good ten minutes at least).

And so, everyday he calls you at eight in the morning, and when you pick up he breathes and you breathe and for exactly one minute and fifty-nine seconds the two of you are connected.

And then he hangs up.

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You think you should mention these calls to Dan but you're worried he'll overreact (writers always did have a flare for the dramatic, you note and think that perhaps you should try your hand at a novel or two) and it rankles you with guilt for three days until you finally decide to just split it out.

To your surprise Dan just shrugs because you're not Serena and he's not Chuck, which is not to say that you guys don't _like_ (or love?) each other, but you're Blair and he's Dan and this is Blair and Dan so it doesn't really matter.

Dan shrugs and Blair returns to her scone—Blair and Dan.

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**WTF does not stand for Watch This Fall.**

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Surprisingly it's Dan Humphrey that ends it.

He takes you to another small coffee shop, and you wonder if the coffee shop is to Dan what the nape of the neck is to Chuck. But instead of getting frisky, he wants to talk emotions. He takes you to a private booth, and tells you that it's just not working out. He hold up his hands slightly, tensed, as he does it, as if he's afraid that you're going to leap across the table and dismember him with your bare hands and your coffee cup.

So you sit there, and wait for it. The feeling of oh-my-god-what-am-I-going-to-do, and oh-my-god-what-did-I-do, and oh-my-god-what-can-I-do to wash over you, but it doesn't.

The only thing you feel is slightly horrified that a Humphrey just broke up with you.

A Humphrey. From Brooklyn. Who probably buys his underwear in bulk from Costco. Dear God.

"Ew," is all you can say, and it's probably the worst thing in the world, and even you and all of your superior airs realizes that this is a highly inappropriate reaction to a breakup, but the sound escapes from you softly before your manners can quench it.

The sound rolls out of your mouth in a soft, airy breath, but Dan hears it anyways, and his face crumples. At first you're dismayed that he's about to start crying, but then his face scrunches up further, and a loud, gruesome sound comes flying out of his mouth. It's not until seconds later that you realize that he's laughing.

At first you're indignant, because how dare he laugh at you? He was a Humphrey for God's sake, and you were a Waldorf. Then you realize how ridiculous you sound, and a slight peal of laughter escapes your mouth.

Before you know it, both of you are hunched over the tiny table, coffee spilt, tears in your eyes, and arms clenched tightly around your middle. You are going to burn in hell for breaking a cardinal rule in the art of break-ups, but right then you don't have enough breath left in you to care.

"Oh Blair," he sighs when he's done. "I wish I could break up with you all the time."

"Shut up Cabbage Patch," you snipe, before pulling out a mirror and checking your reflection, which causes Dan to explode into another round of giggles.

In the end you're both sipping your lattes and Dan promises that the two of you will remain friends. When Dan says this you quell your urge to roll your eyes at the untrue cliché that people tossed each other before never talking to one another again.

(But somehow, you do. The coffee meetings continue, the movie watching continues, you reading Humphrey's book continues, Humphrey driving you to therapy continues; in fact, only the sex stops, but that's okay. It wasn't that great anyway.)

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(A/N I desperately need reviews like Vanessa desperately needs a hairdresser!)


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